


auction block

by pensee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU based on Season 13 episode 11, Anal Sex, Bottom Dean, Boys are Unrelated, Creepy monsters, DUBCON not Noncon, Drugged Sex, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Monster!Sam, Monsters eating humans, Offscreen organ harvesting, Sam basically supplies the monster auctions with humans, Smith & Wesson freeform, Unhappy Ending, dark!Sam, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22745932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee
Summary: The invention of remotely controlled wi-fi cameras and their addition to the home security system was quite an advantage to Sam’s line of work. When you had access to the sort of technology and funds that he did, it was easy enough to scroll through feeds of various human abodes, his own personalized home shopping channel that inevitably led to more money being fed into his various offshore accounts.Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly cheeky, he would dress up and impersonate a federal agent, passionate about investigating his own crimes and catching the serial abductor (and the real authorities were being quite optimistic about it in the news, calling it abduction instead of murder, dismemberment, transporting bodies across state lines, and quite a few other offenses he would never admit to being guilty of) behind it all.But mostly, he remained ensconced in a residence that ensured privacy, complete with a lovely playroom (three drains in the floor, industrial showerheads, lots of lye) and a five-screen setup through which he could stream his favorite home movies.Tonight, the star of the show was a mild-mannered, freckled accountant from Lawrence, Kansas. His name was Dean Smith.
Relationships: Dean Smith/Sam Wesson, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 18





	auction block

**Author's Note:**

> Sam's being paid to do nasty things to humans in exchange for compensation. He also has sex with a consenting (degree of consent is debatable) Dean, who is drugged at the time. Sam is a monster, literally and figuratively, in this fic. If you are not okay to read major character death, please turn back now. Otherwise, if you are still here, enjoy.

The invention of remotely controlled wi-fi cameras and their addition to the home security system was quite an advantage to Sam’s line of work. When you had access to the sort of technology and funds that he did, it was easy enough to scroll through feeds of various human abodes, his own personalized home shopping channel that inevitably led to more money being fed into his various offshore accounts.

Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly cheeky, he would dress up and impersonate a federal agent, passionate about investigating his own crimes and catching the serial abductor (and the real authorities were being quite optimistic about it in the news, calling it abduction instead of murder, dismemberment, transporting bodies across state lines, and quite a few other offenses he would never admit to being guilty of) behind it all.

But mostly, he remained ensconced in a residence that ensured privacy, complete with a lovely playroom (three drains in the floor, industrial showerheads, lots of lye) and a five-screen setup through which he could stream his favorite home movies.

Tonight, the star of the show was a mild-mannered, freckled accountant from Lawrence, Kansas. His name was Dean Smith.

Sam’s laptop chimes with a new alert, and he smirks at the e-mail subject line as he pulls up the details of his next job. His client wants a whole-body donation—not just a stray limb or a spare kidney—but gives Sam permission to “have a little fun with it” before the final transport.

Whistling to himself, Sam moves his discrete little file about Dean Smith to his _capture in progress_ folder, and stands, muscles protesting at the sudden change from being hunched over his computer setup all day.

It was going to be a lovely time, and the night was just beginning.

Call Sam a consummate professional, but he enjoyed doing the harvesting work himself.

Selling body parts in the darkest little corners of the internet where even the most sophisticated human systems wouldn’t be able to track him wasn’t an easy job. He’d long ago set the expectation that he would travel to various snatch sites as required, and it gained him respect among the traditionalists who had once ravaged and burnt entire civilizations to the ground in the Old World. It was a signal to them that he took pleasure in his work, with the added bonus that most of his clients never minded if he had a midnight snack or two while he was at it.

A recently turned vampire—jittery and obviously unused to the sort of job he has been tasked with—opens the heavy door to the kill chamber, and offers a nervous, “All yours, sir,” as he goes off to assist another of Sam’s more senior personnel with a particularly difficult werewolf in the next facility over.

The concrete room is cold; too cold for human comfort, although Sam slips into the meat freezer easily as a human would into a warm bath.

Dean Smith lies in the furthermost corner of the cavernous space, shivering and curled into a fetal position. Sam scents the salt of tears in the frigid air, along with something else that makes him bare his teeth.

They’d drugged him. They’d _tainted_ the meat.

“Good news, Mr. Smith,” he greets, removing the heavy apron he had donned in the corridor. “Someone out there screwed up his orders, which means you get to live another day. Gotta give your system time to metabolize whatever nasty thing they dosed you with.”

Smith starts hyperventilating through his nose, and crawls clumsily, plastering himself to the wall at the sound of another voice.

Tossing the apron across an empty workbench, Sam sighs, moves to peel Dean off the floor. “I’m gonna move you to another room, okay? No reason your last hours on earth have to be spent pissing yourself in a freezer.”

Sam does not mention to Dean that there is a possibility, however remote, that if he is drawn, quartered, and eaten, and his soul drifts down to that lovely swirl of rot and death down below, that he may eventually return as one of them, or some other black-eyed, hungry creature almost comically hellbent on death and destruction.

There is poetic irony in it, but the human condition is often so narrow-minded. Smith would not appreciate it if Sam were to point it out it now.

“N-No reason my last hours on earth h-have to be here and now, a-at all,” Smith says, so quietly that Sam nearly misses it. They’ve made it to the door, Sam supporting the human so he doesn’t stumble.

“Sorry to break it to you, buddy,” Sam says, gentle. “Your name’s already on my list.”

The room that Sam deposits him in isn’t any less prison-like than the one they’ve just come from, though there is a cot and toilet, and a small, bolted down table, so Sam can bring him a tray of food if he so chooses to. Sam swallows, wondering. His underlings usually took care of details like that, but he can’t shake the mental image of himself placing a small platter of…something humans would eat…in front of Smith come morning.

“A-are you guys some kind of huma—human trafficking ring or-or something?” Smith asks, watery, bloodshot eyes on Sam as if furiously memorizing every detail. Sam hates again to be the bearer of bad news, but there’s no chance of Dean living to ever tell the police or anyone else about who took him and why.

“Or something,” Sam decides on, Smith’s shoulders sagging as he realizes that he’s not going to get any further explanation.

Humans went missing all the time, and monsters had to eat. It wasn’t _their_ fault that the humans didn’t see any amusement in their own degradation and slaughter.

“I was—I was in my living room, going over my boss’s books. I, I had a cup of coffee in front of me. Sinatra was playing on the radio,” Smith says, apropos of nothing as he lets Sam arrange him, upright, on the cot.

It was still early enough—especially if Smith was conscious—that the body might induce vomiting in an attempt to rid itself of the drug, and he couldn’t have the human dying on him prematurely.

“Sounds like a nice night,” Sam says, because if he was honest with himself, it was not unlike how he spent most of his nights, poring over hacked video cameras rather than financial documents, but to each his own.

“It was,” Smith mutters, eyes glazing over, and Sam feels saliva pooling on his tongue.

Now that he’s closer, he can smell the human a bit better, a citrusy aroma, cut through with male musk. Most humans smelled like raw fish to him, blank and lifeless until their insides were outside or he could sink his teeth in, but Smith’s scent is fresher than that, even when he’s drugged to the gills.

“P-please don’t kill me. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Sam surprises himself by laughing aloud. So, Dean was clever. From _human trafficking ring_ to _there’s-no-getting-out-alive_ , all in a matter of minutes.

“I know a decent amount about you, Dean. Enough to know you couldn’t give me anything I don’t already have.”

“I—.”

Dean looks confused, for a moment, as if unsure of why Sam hasn’t accepted his offer.

“Not anything, huh,” he drawls, resigned again, and Sam tries to tear his eyes away from the constellation of light brown freckles against the bridge of his nose, the pretty flecks of green and gold he can see peeking out from beneath girlishly long lashes. Smith’s skin is soft, as if he moisturizes every day, with hands that have not seen a hard day’s work his entire life.

(Sam’s hands are similarly pristine, though it is more a fault of his biology than them ever having been truly clean.)

“Maybe there’s something,” Sam says, biting the inside of his cheek.

Some humans had willingly offered him as much, when they understood that they weren’t going to see the light of day again unless they did what he said (he would have to disabuse them of that notion eventually, but by then, it was already too late).

“What do you want,” Dean says, though he already knows. A tiny smirk pulls at the corner of his plump mouth, happy for a tiny moment to have the upper hand.

 _Sex and death_ , Sam thinks. _Power couple if I’d ever seen one_.

“How long were you watching me? You knew exactly when I’d get home. Knew how it’d look like I’d just gone inside for the night, my car still in the driveway.”

Sam has been watching him for weeks, but he has been watching at least a handful of other people for just as long. He doesn’t want Dean to think he’s special.

“A while,” he says.

“You know, I saw a story on the news the other night, about people talking to kids through nanny cams. Some dumbass broke into my place a few months ago; I put cameras up outside, in the living room and upstairs. Is that how you got me?”

It wasn’t Dean’s fault, so much as his paranoia’s, and Sam stalls himself, keeping the reassuring words choked down in his throat. What does he have to apologize for? About as useful as apologizing to a piece of raw steak.

“I always turned the cameras off when I got home. Did you turn them back on?”

Sam wants to snarl, to tell the stupid human to shut up, but the admonition doesn’t come.

“Humans look so tender when they’re undressed,” he growls, and doesn’t miss how Dean’s heart flutters beneath his clothes. He can practically see the vibration of it in his ribcage, as if it’s trying to leap out of his chest. “So vulnerable. So stupid, thinking they’re safe, just going about their lives, listening to Sinatra on the radio, forgetting to lock their doors.”

Instead of being frightened at the admission, at the terrifyingly inhuman sight of Sam’s too-sharp bared teeth, Dean lifts a heavy hand to touch at the side of Sam’s face.

“You’ve got birthmarks, here and here. Looks…looks pretty h-human to me.”

Sam wants to rave—how it’s an evolutionary response, that he’s got no control over how he looks, that it was a more efficient way to hunt what he needed to survive—but he’s silenced by Dean’s lips on his own, the human’s tongue snaking into his mouth.

The cot creaks beneath his weight as he plants his hands against the wall for balance, lest he fall face first into the bed’s unforgiving metal frame, balancing a knee on the edge instead, one foot still firmly planted on the floor.

“D-Don’t make it hurt,” Dean whispers, when they break apart for air, Sam’s chest heaving as he struggles between the urge to bite and claw and the urge to back away like a shrinking prey animal. _What was wrong with him_?

“I’ll make it hurt,” he promises, ignoring the request, and only after a few beats does he recognize that Dean meant his death, not what happens next.

The pajamas that Dean is wearing part like tissue paper between his hands, and Sam repeats to himself _fragile, vulnerable, stupid, stupid, stupid_ as Dean arches up into him, pulls him down with his weak little human hands.

Dean’s cock is still soft when Sam rearranges them, bares him completely, but Sam thinks it can’t be for lack of interest, Dean clutching at his back and trying in vain to lift his own legs so they’ll rest against Sam’s broad shoulders.

“Stop moving, let me do it,” Sam barks, though it’s a laughable attempt to regain control over himself, a drop of sweat sliding down his temple and landing on the bobbing skin of Dean’s Adam’s apple. To distract himself, he undoes his button-fly, yanks his dick out of his underwear and tucks his briefs under his balls the best he can.

One good thing about his anatomy being passably human: their genitalia were instantly compatible.

Hawking and spitting a wet wad into his palm, he lets it drip onto his fingers, spreading it vigorously over his cock. Beneath him, Dean whimpers as he catches sight of Sam’s dick, heavy and swaying towards his hole.

Petting Dean’s perineum as if soothing a startled animal, caught by the inexplicable thought of how cute his furred little balls were, Sam gathers more saliva in his mouth and spits directly into Dean’s weakly clenching ass.

Dean makes a startled sound, an almost-keen, though it dissolves into a low grunt as Sam doesn’t waste any time ( _what, losing your nerve to fuck a human who practically threw himself at you_ ) pushing into him, shoving past whatever barriers the human’s body attempted to maintain.

Sphincter spasming around him, Sam lets out a groan of his own as he scoots forward, grabbing Dean by the thighs and smiling triumphantly as the human’s flanks clap against his own legs.

“ _Fuuuuck_ ,” Dean hisses, clumsy hands scrabbling for purchase on Sam, but Sam shakes him off and Dean’s too weak to really put up a fight, loosely fisting his hands onto the body of the cot instead.

It’s been a long time since Sam has fucked a human, and he’s forgotten how warm they are inside, how much he enjoys the small little noises their bodies make as he makes way for himself inside of Dean’s accommodating guts.

Soft cock bouncing with every thrust, Dean doesn’t even attempt to get a hand on himself, just watches with glassy eyes as Sam hovers over him like the monster he is, practically foaming at the mouth for this silly human laid out on his back, knowing full well how this story ends.

Dean mumbles to himself, some happy, nonsense noise, and Sam’s hands grip him harder, because _does he not realize how foolish this was, how much Sam still wants to hurt him, how much_ —.

“ _Oh_ ,” Dean sighs, mouth open and pink, eyelids fluttering, and he looks so fucking pleased to be here, laid out on a cot with someone who is going to fillet him alive taking his first turn at cleaving him deep. Sam can’t help himself, jackknifing up into Dean’s body over and over again, till those whimpers turn into genuine gasps of pain. He comes as Dean begs, “ _Please, please_ —,” and never finds out whether the human meant to plead for more or for less.

Watching the sluggish drip of come as he pulls back, a wet strand connecting himself to Dean’s body, he spreads the human’s cheeks with his big hands, cock still half-hard and messy as he tucks it back into his shorts.

“Someone will come to get you later,” he says, and doesn’t offer to replace Dean’s destroyed clothing, though it’s about as chilly in this room as it was in the last. The human won’t need them come next nightfall, anyway.

His skin feels too tight, his head too empty and too full at once.

Though he normally feels rejuvenated every time he leaves one of these rooms, his chest is tight when the door slams shut behind him, and he wonders whether it’s because Dean didn’t say another word to him, didn’t even make a show of asking him to stay.

“Hey, boss,” the new vamp says—and Sam should really start learning names, but they went through temp personnel so quickly anyway. “They finished up on that guy from Lawrence. Uh, just thought I’d let you know there was also a delay on the Tulsa pick-up. Um, the lady had quite a few guns, and she knew how to use them. Sorry it wasn’t in her file.”

Sam would normally care about Tulsa more than their last successful sale, but something in him tells him he owes it to Dean, to say goodbye.

The kill room is nearly the same as he left it before, though a shapeshifter he doesn’t recognize ( _ha!_ ) is cleaning a pair of scalpels and a rib-spreader at the bench.

“I can do that,” he says, shooing them off, and they nod, leaving without questioning.

Sam does fully intend to clean up after them—he didn’t get into this business being sloppy—but first, the farewell he promised himself.

Dean’s soft parts are already packed for transport, the rest of him bundled equally safe so that all the client has to do is unwrap and feast however they choose.

Still, Sam can allow himself this one indulgence.

He can still smell it, beyond the metallic scent of blood. Citrus and musk.

Touching his tongue to the tip of a dirty scalpel blade, he has a taste.

 _Bye, silly human_ , he thinks, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Sam was not the one to kill Dean because he couldn’t bring himself to, even though he usually likes to harvest things himself. 
> 
> No, this was not my shoddy attempt at dark romance (okay, maybe a little). I normally write for the Hannibal fandom, what can I say. 
> 
> Follow me on Twitter if you like Hannibal or any of this kind of thing (I cannot promise that much SPN content). @penseeart


End file.
